Killshot

“I JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR.”

“How was it? You have any trouble?” “It wasn’t bad. When did you get there?” “Four a.m. I got up at seven, had a shower. At

the moment I’m having some ice cream. Butter

scotch ripple.” “Are we a little hung over?” “You took the aspirin with you. That was a

cruel thing to do, you know it?” “Wayne, why don’t you leave as soon as you

can. In case Ferris stops by.” “He already has. He’s here right now.” “You mean he’s right there, in the kitchen?” “No, in the bathroom. I think his jaw’s broken,”

Wayne said and told her about it. Carmen listened. She said, “Wayne, you better

get out of there, now.” “Soon as I clean out the refrigerator.” As he said it, and told her he didn’t see a prob

lem, he’d ask Ferris if he wanted him to call Emergency Medical or the cops, Carmen was aware of a humming sound, familiar, one she was used to, and turned from the sink to look at the refrigerator. The door was closed and it was running. Wayne was telling her now he planned to keep his foot on the gas all the way and try to make it in ten and a half hours, set a new Cape to Algonac speed record.

“We turned off the refrigerator,” Carmen said, “didn’t we? I mean the one here.”

“We shut everything off but the phone.”

“Well, somebody turned it on.” She paused, listening. “Wayne, I think the furnace is going.”

“Check the thermostat.”

“I can feel it. It’s warm in here.”

“Maybe Nelson had the house open, trying to sell it. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Maybe,” Carmen said, looking across the kitchen to what had been a pantry and now was Wayne’s closet, where he kept his hunting and fishing gear, stacks of outdoor magazines. She listened to him speculate, Nelson gets an offer and the next thing they know he’s trying to sell them a two-bedroom over at Wildwood, your choice of decorator colors. The shotgun must be in there, in Wayne’s closet. It had to be, they didn’t take it with them. The closet would be locked and the key was on the ring with the rest of his keys, in her purse.

“Call your buddy Nelson and ask him.”

She’d get the shotgun out and put it by the door. It startled her, all of a sudden remembering the two guys.

“Carmen?”

“I will. I have to call Mom first.”

“You gonna be home when I get there?”

“I’ll see how she is.”

“Get her permission.”

“If I can leave her, I will. Okay? That’s the best I can do.”

“You get pissed off at Mommy and lay into me.”

“I’m tired,” Carmen said.

“Call the State Police, that detective, whatever his name is. Tell him you’re home.”

“I will. Hurry, okay?”

“I’ll see you about six, six-thirty. We’ll probably need a few things, huh, some beer?”

“It’s weird,” Carmen said, looking around the kitchen. She saw the oven door open a few inches.

“What is?”

“I don’t know—the feeling. I walked in, it wasn’t like coming back to a house that’s been closed up.”

“It’s only been a week but seems longer, that’s all. Call Nelson.”

“I will.”

“And that cop.”

“I’ll see you,” Carmen said. Hesitated a moment and said, “Wayne? I’ll be here.” She pushed the button to disconnect, dialed her mother’s number,

waited and was surprised to hear:

“Hello?” The tone almost pleasant.

“Mom? Did you know it was me?”

“I prayed it was. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m home. How are you?”

“Well, I’m walking now. The pain is still something awful, but at least I’m on my feet. When’re you coming over?”

“You sound much better.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I could stop by later, for a while anyway. Wayne’ll be home this evening and I want to have his dinner ready.”

“I haven’t seen you in so long . . .”

“Do you need anything at the store?”

“I’ll have to think, I’m so used to looking out for myself,” her mom said. “Well, I could use a bottle of Clairol Loving Care. The light ash blonde, number seventy-one.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh—I got the report from Annoyance Call. There was a whole bunch of calls from where you were, three-one-four. There was one from Algonac, your house, and three from public phones. One Marine City and two Port Huron that must’ve been the hang-ups. That’s what they do, call from a pay phone so they don’t get traced, they’re slick articles.”

“I didn’t know you were having trouble.”

“I told you the day you had your phone put in, and you called? I was gonna see if a trap would catch him.”

“You must’ve had it done before we left.”

“It was right after, I know, because I was worried sick I hadn’t heard from you.”

Carmen said, “And one of the calls was from this house?”

“It’s your number on the list.”

“But we weren’t here, Mom.”

Her mother said, “Well, somebody was.” She said, “How’s your weather down there?”

Thirty miles away. Carmen wanted to hang up and walk out of the house—the weather was all right, it was weather, about 50 out, overcast, quite windy—walk all the way around the outside of the house and look at it good—her mom saying it was 52 degrees in Port Huron—look in the windows and find out for sure, was this her house? It looked like it, everything was in the right place, but it didn’t feel like her house, someone had been here and touched things. Everything wasn’t in the right place, the phone book and note pad she kept in a drawer were on the counter. Someone had been here and left a smell, the kitchen smelled, someone had been cooking, used the oven she never left open like that, plugged in the refrigerator humming away, what else? Looking around now—her mom asking what time she was coming—Carmen telling her she didn’t know offhand, she had to shop (think of something), she had to get a tire fixed, and heard a sound from somewhere in the house, hard, clear, a metal-hitting-metal sound. Carmen told herself it was a radiator clanging, hot air banging in a pipe, and told her mom she’d be there around noon, bye, I missed you too, Mom, yeah, okay, see you in a little while, bye. And hung up. She moved to the range, stooped to push the oven door open and looked inside. Three wedges of cold pizza and a few crusts lay on a cookie sheet. She could smell them. Carmen straightened, closing the oven, turned to the refrigerator and jumped, sucking in her breath.

Richie said, “How’s Mom doing?”

He stood in the doorway to the dining room wearing an ironworker’s jacket, Wayne’s old one, and sunglasses, holding a shotgun across his arm.

Now the other one appeared, coming into the kitchen past Richie Nix, also with a shotgun but holding it at his side, pointed down. Armand Degas, wearing the same dark suit he’d worn that day at the real estate office. He said to Carmen, “It looks like we gonna be together for a while, ’ey? Till six or six-thirty?”

Richie Nix said, “Bird? Here, hold this,” and handed him his shotgun.

He came toward her and Carmen tried to look him in the eye, tried hard, but lowered and turned her head as his hand came up and she thought he was going to slap her across the face. “You got nice hair,” Richie said, touching it, stroking it. She was looking down at his cowboy boots toe to toe with her white sneakers. “Has body, you don’t have to use a lot of sticky spray on it.” He moved against her, his hands going to her shoulders. “Mmmmm, smells nice, too. I can see you believe in personal hygiene, you keep yourself clean. I like your sweater-and-shirt outfit. You look like a little schoolgirl.” His hands came down to take hold of her hips. “Scoot over, I want to get something here.”

Carmen looked up. She saw the diamond in his earlobe and saw Armand Degas watching them. Richie had the oven door open. He brought out a wedge of cold pizza and took a bite as he moved to the window over the sink.

“How come you had to drive the pickup?”

“It was there,” Carmen said. Her voice sounded dry.

“Whatever that means,” Richie said, looking at her now. “It don’t matter. Where’s the keys?” When she hesitated Richie stepped over to her purse lying on the counter. “In here?”

Armand said, “Put the truck in the garage and close the door. Let’s get that done.”

Carmen watched Richie look up and stare at Armand before he said, “That’s what I’m gonna do, Bird. Why do you think I want the keys?” He brought them out of the purse and walked around the counter that separated the kitchen work area from the door.

“I thought you might want to keep talking,” Armand said, “till somebody drives by, sees the truck.”

Richie stopped and took a bite of pizza. He said, “Hey, Bird?” in a mild tone of voice. “Fuck you.”

It didn’t seem to bother Armand. Carmen watched him. All he did was shrug, reach over and lay Richie’s shotgun on the counter against the wall.

She moved to the window over the sink, not wanting to be alone with Armand looking at her. She had to make up her mind how to think about this, how to accept it—her mouth dry, trying to breathe, telling herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly—how to act, passive, or let herself go, think of Wayne walking in and let the tears come, plead with them, please...Or think of a way . . . First get the keys back from Richie, with the key to Wayne’s closet, the Remington inside. She thought of it without knowing if it was possible or if she’d have the nerve, it was hard to picture, if she did somehow get to the gun—would it be loaded?—and held it on them...then what? Through the window she saw Richie inside the pickup, starting it, both hands free, what was left of the pizza slice sticking out of his mouth. He might leave the keys in the ignition. She watched the pickup creep ahead and turn toward the garage, out of view.

Behind her, Armand said, “You want to fix us some breakfast? We brought food, it’s in the icebox.”

Carmen turned and they were as close as the day he tried to come up the porch steps, his face raised with the hunting cap hiding his eyes, the day she could have shot him and wished to God, now, she had.

She said, “What do you want?”

“There some waffles if you have any syrup.”

“I don’t mean to eat. What do you want?”

“We’re waiting for your husband.”

Making it sound like a visit.

“And when he gets here...?”

She watched him shrug and then look up. A hammering sound was coming from the garage, Richie—it would have to be Richie—pounding on metal. The sound stopped.

“I know why you’re here,” Carmen said. “Why can’t you say it?”

“Well, if you know that . . .” He gestured with his hands, let them fall and said, “Don’t talk so

much, all right?”

“Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

“I’ll get tired hearing you and put a gag on your mouth, tie you up. You want that? I don’t care.”

Richie came in holding Wayne’s sleever bar. “Look it, Bird. What the guy used on us. I knew he kept it in that tool box. It’s just what I been looking for.”

Armand didn’t say anything.

Richie dropped the keys on the counter going by and Carmen didn’t hesitate. She stepped over from the sink, picked up the keys, ready to shove them into her jeans, and stopped. Richie was at Wayne’s closet. She watched him wedge the pry end of the bar into the seam between the door and the frame, Richie saying, “I been wondering why you kept this locked.” He put his weight behind the bar, pushing on it. “I never even noticed it till this morning.” He grunted, pushed hard and the door popped open.

Carmen stared at the closet. She could see Richie inside now with the light on. Armand, close to her, said, “You gonna fix us breakfast?”

“Fishing poles and a bunch of shit for hunting,” Richie said, his voice raised. “I thought there’d be a gun. Hey, Bird, didn’t you?”

Carmen didn’t move, staring at the closet, Richie inside looking around. Close to her Armand said, “There was a shotgun.” She didn’t look at him. “That one you had, ’ey? Where’s that one?”

“In Cape Girardeau, Missouri,” Carmen said.

“That’s where you were? It sounds French, no? But I never heard of it. So your husband has the gun, ’ey?”

She was thinking that last week or the week before or whenever it was, she had brought the Remington inside and Wayne had come back from the store where the girl was killed and picked it up. . . . It wasn’t next to the door when they left and Wayne didn’t bring it with them, she was sure of that. He had put it somewhere... she thought in his closet.

“I remember that gun, with the slug barrel on it,” Armand said. “I remember I asked you, you shoot people with that thing? Oh, you wanted to shoot me that time. I watched you, I could see it. Didn’t you?”

Carmen stared at Richie in the closet, Richie holding something in his hand, looking at it closely.

“But you couldn’t do it,” Armand said in his quiet voice close to her. “Maybe your husband’s different, I don’t know. But you don’t shoot people, do you?”

Carmen didn’t answer, watching Richie coming out of the closet with a plastic bottle in his hand, holding it up.

“Hey, Bird? What’s Hot Doe Buck Lure?”

Armand inspected the entire house again in daylight. Upstairs in the bedroom he pulled the phone cord out of the wall, in case the ironworker’s wife sneaked up here. She might do it, but could never jump out of one of these windows without hurting herself. She would have to go through the two panes of glass, the window and the storm sash, once he locked them, using all the strength in his fingers to twist each catch in place. There were storm windows downstairs too. The living room was on the wrong side of the house to watch from, but the dining room was good. Armand liked the dining room, the big oak table, the window in front and the row of windows along the side, where the ironworker would drive in. There was still plenty of time. It was only eleven-thirty. He’d have one drink, a swallow from the bottle, that’s all.

He was getting used to the sounds around this place. It had been quiet all night except for Richie, but now the wind was gusting, rattling the windows, and those big cargo planes from the Self-ridge Air National Guard base were flying over low, with a roaring noise like they were coming into the house. It would shut Richie up for a few moments. Armand felt himself coming to the end of Richie, the irritation of this guy, this punk, reaching its peak, and by the end of this day that would be enough of him. Richie hadn’t mentioned Donna yet but he would, Armand was pretty sure.

Earlier, they had eaten in the kitchen, the waffles you put in a toaster. The ironworker’s wife had syrup. She made coffee and stood by the window while they sat at the counter, Richie talking, trying to impress her, the punk talking with his mouth full. He asked her if she had ever met a bank robber before. She said no. He asked her if she liked Missouri. She shrugged her shoulders. He said did she know Jesse James was from there? He said he was going to Missouri and rob one of the banks Jesse James robbed, that would be cool. He showed her all the flat frozen-food boxes in the icebox, not in the freezer, thawing on a shelf, so you could cook them quicker, and told her he ate chicken every day. You know why? She said no. He said because Wade Boggs ate chicken every day of his life. He said, Bird, you know who Wade Boggs is? Armand had heard the name, they spoke of Wade Boggs in the Silver Dollar in Toronto, cursing him; but that was all he knew, the name, so he didn’t answer. Richie asked the ironworker’s wife, calling her Carmen, if she knew and she nodded. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Richie said, Tell the Bird who he is. Carmen said, He plays third base for the Boston Red Sox. Richie said, And belts the shit right out of a baseball. He told Carmen he had wanted to be a major-league ballplayer, but his deprived youth as an orphan had fucked up his chances, so he became a bank robber instead. Chewing gum by this time, the punk would blow a bubble and pop it, showing off.

Next thing, Richie told Carmen to take her clothes off, he had an idea. She said no, shaking her head at him, determined not to do it. He said, Okay, not all your clothes. You got on undies, don’t you? You can leave on your brassiere if you wear one and your panties. You wear a brassiere? She turned away as he reached for her and Armand watched Richie rub his hand over her back, feeling it, and then his whole face smiled and he said, Hey, she don’t wear one, Bird. He told her, Okay, strip down to your panties if you got any on and you’ll be our little topless bunny, serve us drinks and dinner. How’s that sound, Bird? Armand didn’t say anything. The way this punk kept talking had him at the edge; still, he wouldn’t mind seeing the ironworker’s wife without her clothes on. She held her arms tight to her body when Richie tried to pull the sweater off. When she kneed Richie in the crotch, hard, and he doubled over with the pain, Armand thought Richie might pull his gun. He could hit her if he wanted, but shoot her, no. Her mother might phone worried sick, wondering where she was. Or the ironworker might call from the road and think something happened if she didn’t answer and then maybe he’d call the police too. But Richie didn’t pull his gun. He tried to slap her with one hand, holding his balls with the other, and she got away from him and went to the other side of the counter and picked up a knife. Richie thought that was funny. What he did, he opened the bottle of Hot Doe Buck Lure and threw deer piss on her clothes, doused her with it good and the smell was so bad it could make you sick. Richie made her go into the bathroom at the end of the hall, telling her to take off those clothes and wash herself. He closed the door and they stood in the foyer by the stairs waiting. The door opened. She came out wearing something that looked like an undershirt and white panties very low on her hips. Jesus Christ. Richie said, Hey, I want you topless. But looked at her some more and said it was a cute outfit, he liked it. Armand didn’t say it but agreed with Richie, the ironworker’s wife looked pretty nice. She stood up straight, not folding her arms or trying to cover herself, and looked right back at them. Though didn’t seem too happy about it, no.

They were in the dining room now, at the table Carmen and Wayne had bought at a farm auction.

Richie sat at the end toward the doorway to the

kitchen. He had Wayne’s jacket off, hooked to the back of his chair. The nickel-plated revolver she remembered lay on the table next to his low-cal gourmet chicken.

Carmen sat with the windows behind her, hands folded on the table edge in front of her; she felt less exposed here. The tank top smelled and she’d breathe through her mouth whenever she got a strong whiff of doe urine and would remember the night Wayne brought it home. She wasn’t shaking the way she did at first, chills running through her. Now she could sit without holding herself rigid, not exactly relaxed, but at least aware. The hardest part was trying not to think of Wayne coming home or Wayne in tender moments or Matthew; she didn’t dare think of Matthew, especially as a little boy. If she did an urge to cry would come over her and she was afraid if she started she wouldn’t be able to stop.

What she did to hang on and not panic or come apart was think of Wayne in a different way, Wayne here, close to her, so that she wasn’t alone. Wayne in her mind but real, because she knew him so well. She asks him if he’s scared and he says, for Christ sake of course he’s scared, you’d have to have brain damage not to be scared of these ass-holes. Don’t let their chitchat, that casual bullshit, fool you, these guys are fucking maniacs. Stay low, don’t make a lot of noise, don’t piss them off, and if they give you any more than thirty seconds’ leeway take it, run like hell for a door. Don’t try a window, you’ll never get the goddamn storm open. She says, Thanks a lot. Wayne shrugs. What else can I tell you? You run if you see the chance. You get your hands on a gun, use it. None of this put-your-hands-up-while-I-call-the-cops, use it. She asked him where he’d put the Remington. He wouldn’t tell her. She clenched her jaw. Wayne, goddamn it ...He still wouldn’t tell her.

Armand, wearing his suit coat and the tie with tiny fish on it, sat across from her eating Swedish meatballs and noodles. The opening to the foyer and the stairway was directly behind him. Richie, to Armand’s left at the end of the table, would stare at her tank top chewing his food, sucking his teeth. He looked at her the way Ferris did; but Ferris was an actor, Richie was real. Ferris was nothing. Armand would glance at her as he looked up from his food to gaze at the row of windows behind her, rattling in the wind. She had been right when she told Wayne, a long, long time ago, Richie was scarier than Armand.

They’d had drinks now, Richie a Southern Comfort and 7-Up, one, Armand four whiskeys with a splash of water, and were talking to each other more than they did earlier.

Carmen listened to them, waiting for the phone to ring, Mom calling, Where are you? It’s almost one o’clock. They began talking about the shotgun, Wayne’s Remington, as if she wasn’t sitting at the table with them. It gave her a strange feeling, till she began to concentrate on the gun that was somewhere in the house.

Richie saying, “He might have it, but he’s not gonna walk in here with it.”

Armand saying, “Oh, you know that?”

Richie saying, “Why would he? He thinks his little wife’s in here fixing supper. Comes runing in, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home.’ ”

Armand saying, “How do you know he won’t have the gun?”

Carmen thinking, Because he doesn’t. Because it’s here.

Armand saying, “What did she say to him on the telephone? Something funny is going on here and he told her to call the cops.”

Richie saying, “To tell them she’s home, that’s all.” Looking at her then and saying, “Isn’t that right?” Carmen nodded and he said, “I guess you figured out we was listening in upstairs.”

Carmen thinking that’s where it would have to be. But if it was there, why didn’t they see it? If Wayne took it upstairs he wouldn’t have hidden it.

She looked at the glasses and plates and food containers on the table—extra ones in the middle Armand would pick from, macaroni and cheese, lasagna, sweet potatoes with sliced apple and brown sugar—looked at the stains on the plastic tablecloth she had put on to protect the wood finish. It reminded her of looking in the refrigerator yesterday at 950 Hillglade, worrying about food spoiling when she was dying to get out of there. Instinctively the good little housewife. Now sitting in her underwear with two guys who were going to shoot her husband when he walked in the door and then shoot her or shoot them both at the same time. . . . She had never thought about dying or even getting old or what she had heard on television called the terrifying middle-age crisis. . . . They might use the shotguns leaning against the table next to where they sat. They might take them down to the cellar. She thought, Well, if we’re together. And thought, Bullshit.

Mad. The way she was on the porch the time Armand came and she fired twice. Mad because he was so goddamn sure of himself. Fired when he was close and fired again, when he was out by the chickenhouse. After that she went inside.

Now think.

She had laid the gun on the counter.

Wayne came home from the store where the girl had been shot and killed. Probably by the nickel-plated gun lying on the table to the right of Richie’s plate, the stubby barrel pointing at Armand. The police arrived. No, they got here before Wayne, because he was questioned at the store for about an hour, came home and a different bunch of cops started on him and they didn’t like his attitude. They never liked it. Wayne saying if they weren’t going to handle it, he would. Wayne furious, in his way, showing contempt, cold anger. Wayne reloading the shotgun in front of them. Carmen remembered it now, yes, and the police didn’t like it at all, Wayne’s Charles Bronson gesture. And the next night—or was it the night after that?—the front windows were shot out as they sat in the living room and threw themselves on the floor and the duck prints were blown off the wall, yes, and that night Wayne took the shotgun upstairs. He said, They could walk right in the goddamn house if they want. He said, We’ll clean that up in the morning. He took the shotgun upstairs with them saying, We’ll hear this step squeak if they try it. She remembered she didn’t say anything. He stood the gun against his night table but didn’t like it there. He said, I get up to go to the bathroom. ...He knelt down—she could see him doing it—and put the gun under the bed.

That’s where it was.

These two would have been standing by the bed or sitting on it listening as she talked to Wayne and then her mother, seven-thirty this morning. They didn’t notice it because the phone was on the night table on her side of the bed and the gun was under Wayne’s side. She wondered if he might have brought it downstairs later. But she didn’t remember seeing it downstairs before they left and if he did they would have found it.

No, the shotgun was still under the bed, loaded.

Richie said, “What’s wrong with our little bunny?”

Armand didn’t say anything.

Richie said, “Hey, what’s wrong with you? You scared or what?”

Carmen raised her eyes from the table. “Of course, I’m scared.”

Richie acted surprised. “There’s no reason to be. Old Wayne gets home, all we’re gonna do is have a talk with him. Isn’t that right, Bird?”

Armand, hunched over his plate, looked up at her with dull eyes, indifferent. He said, “That’s right.”

Carmen didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that would mean anything. Richie seemed dumb enough to think she might believe him and Armand was telling her he didn’t care if she believed it or not or care what Richie said. Richie could do whatever he wanted. Armand would watch. What she had to do, soon, was think of a way to get around the table past them, run upstairs to the bedroom, lock the door and pray to God the shotgun was under the bed and she’d have time to pick it up before they came busting in.

***

When the phone rang Richie said, “That must be old Mom, huh? Let’s tell her you can’t make it today, you’re sick.” He took Carmen by the arm into the kitchen, giving her instructions on the way. If it was Wayne, tell him to hurry. If it was anybody else, tell them she couldn’t talk now, she had to get to her mom’s. She reached for the phone and he said, “Wait now,” and felt her jump as he slipped cold metal into the rear end of her panties, nosing the barrel of the nickelplate down to rest against her tailbone. He said, “Don’t be dumb now and get your bummie shot off. I want it in one piece for after. Okay, make it quick.”

Richie moved in close to listen and smell her hair. Heard the mom say, “Well, where are you?” Tough old broad. Carmen told her she was sorry but she couldn’t make it. Richie poked her with the nickelplate. She said, “I’m sick.” Her mom asked what was wrong. Carmen said she didn’t know, she just didn’t feel good. The mom said it must’ve been something she ate on the road and that’s why she didn’t travel, the food being terrible out there. The mom said, “Well, you don’t sound too bad.” The mom wanted her to come anyway on account of she was in awful pain and had called the doctor three times and he still hadn’t called back, he let her sit by the phone for hours while he was busy making money. Richie agreed with her. Doctors he had known in the joint all had a superior attitude. He got a surprise then when Carmen said all of a sudden, “Can’t you stop thinking of yourself for one minute and listen?” Uh-oh. “I’m sick. Do you understand that? You’ve had your turn, now it’s mine.” Her mom didn’t like that one bit. She said, “Well, thank you very much—after all I’ve done for you,” and hung up.

Taking her back to the table Richie said, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, talking to your mom like that.”

Armand had the container of lasagna in front of him now eating from it, taking his time; it was pretty good, still warm. Richie had gone to the toilet and Carmen in that undershirt was looking at Richie’s Model 27 Smith & Wesson lying on the table. He said to her, “You ever shot one of those?”

It caught her by surprise. She looked at him a moment before shaking her head.

“Good,” Armand said. Their eyes held for another moment and he was sorry he had spoken to her.

Richie came in from the hall zipping up his pants, a magazine under his arm. He said, “Jesus Christ, Bird, you still eating?” The punk chewing his gum. “Man, I already showed you what you’re gonna look like.”

Armand stopped eating, pushed the lasagna away from him and leaned on the table, his arms flat along the edge, one hand hanging, feeling his belly through his tie. He watched Richie, seated now, the magazine open, showing Carmen the picture of the twelve-hundred-pound man lying in bed, his little head peeking out from that tremendous body.

“Bird,” Richie said, never shutting up, “listen to what the guy eats. For breakfast, two pounds of bacon, a dozen eggs and some rolls. Lunch, four Big Macs, four double cheeseburgers, eight boxes of fries, six little pies and six quarts of soda. Am I making you hungry?”

Keep talking, Armand thought, watching Richie blow a bubble and pop it.

“For supper he’ll have three ham steaks, six sweet potatoes, six or seven regular potatoes and stuffing. Bird, can you imagine this guy taking a dump? Jesus Christ.” Richie shook his head, studying the picture in the magazine. When he looked up he was starting to smile. “You know who could cook for this guy? Old Donna. Be like cooking for a whole fucking cellblock.”

Armand watched Richie turn to Carmen.

“Donna Mulry’s the Bird’s sweetheart.”

And was surprised when Carmen looked at him and said, “Why does he call you the Bird?”

Armand liked her asking him that. It reminded him of who he was. Or who he had been. He said, “I’m called the Blackbird,” and almost smiled at her.

“Him and Donna are going to Memphis,” Richie said, cracking his gum, “so they can visit Graceland, hold hands looking at all that Elvis Presley shit. Isn’t that right, Bird?”

Look at the punk chewing away. “I think so,” Armand said.

“Donna’s this dried-up old broad use to be a corrections officer,” Richie said to Carmen. “Man, did she love corrections. I can tell you why, too, if you want to know.” Richie paused, he had plenty of time, and got a bubble going. A big one.

Armand’s right hand came out of his coat holding the Browning auto. Richie wasn’t looking. Armand racked the slide to put one in the chamber. Now he was looking, his eyes big peeking over that bubble. Armand the Blackbird said, “You get one, Richie, like everybody else,” extended the Browning and shot him in the center of that pink bubble. The sound of it so loud—as Richie’s head snapped back and came forward to hit the magazine lying on the table—always louder than Armand expected.

***

Carmen heard him say, “There,” and heard him blow out his breath even as she felt her head ringing, the room filled with the sound. She was holding herself rigid, but didn’t realize it until the sound faded to silence and she watched Armand get up and move to the end of the table, watched him lay his gun next to Richie’s, lift Wayne’s jacket from the back of Richie’s chair and use it to cover Richie’s head and shoulders. Carmen thought of stopping him. Don’t, that’s my husband’s. But kept quiet, trying to feel Wayne close by, the way she had felt him before and used him to get mad and hold on. If he was with her now, he wasn’t saying a word. She stared at his jacket, at ironworkers build america, blue on silver, and beyond it a splash of color on the wall, deep red.

“You know what he did?” Armand said.

Carmen looked up. He was going toward the kitchen.

“He called me Bird for the last time, that’s what he did.” Armand walked into the kitchen and Carmen waited. She looked at the dull-metal automatic and the nickel-plated revolver on the table next to the covered shape. Armand came out of the kitchen with his bottle of whiskey saying, “I’m no bird. All I know about that stuff was from my grandmother. It was so long ago I don’t even remember most of it.”

Carmen watched him sit down at his place and pour whiskey into his glass. He raised the glass to her and took a sip.

“I’ll tell you something else. I never saw her get seagulls to shit on a car. Oh, they said she could do it, but I never saw it. She was gonna turn me into an owl one time. I said, ‘I don’t want to be no owl, I want to be a blackbird.’ She said okay. So I went in the sweat lodge, I was in there hours. I come out naked holding a blanket around me. She beats on this little drum she’s got and chants in Ojibway awhile. She stops, she tells me to throw off the blanket and fly away. I throw it off, raise my arms up. Nothing happened. I feel my body, I said to her, ‘I’m no blackbird, I’m still me.’ She says, ‘When was the last time you bathed?’ I said, ‘You mean washed myself? I took a bath yesterday.’ She says, ‘Oh, you not suppose to bathe for a month.’ So I didn’t become a blackbird.” He raised his glass to her, said, “That’s my life story, whether you understand it or not,” and took a drink.

Carmen said, “Who wants to be a blackbird?”

He seemed to like that and came close to smiling. “If you could be any kind of bird there is, what kind would you be?”

Carmen thought of birds and saw the bird prints covering the walls of her mother’s house. She said, “I wouldn’t be a bird. I’d be something else.”

He seemed to like that, too. “All right, what would you be?”

Carmen took a moment, breathed in, hesitated and breathed out through her mouth. She said, “Maybe a deer.” She watched him nod, thinking about it. She said, “Although . . .” pulled the neck of the tank top away from her, lowered her head slightly and sniffed. “They smell awful.”

He said, “We all smell at times.”

She fanned the air in front of her. “Not this bad.” She said, “That buck lure really smells.” She said, “Could I get dressed?”

“If you want, sure. I’m not Richie, I’m not the same as him.”

Carmen watched him raise his glass to the shape at the end of the table and take a drink.

She said, “I’ll have to go upstairs.”

There was a silence.

He said, “Well . . .”

She waited, expecting him to say, Didn’t you bring clothes? Or, I’ll go up with you. She watched him pour whiskey into his glass.

He said, “Okay, I’ll give you one minute.”

She didn’t move.

“Go on.”

Now she got up, walked around the table past him. When she was in the hall she heard him say, “You don’t want to be a bird, think of what you would be.”

Carmen closed the bedroom door and locked it. She went to Wayne’s side of the bed, dropped to her hands and knees and saw the Remington, right there, brought it out feeling the weight of it and smelling the oil smell. She went into the bathroom, closed the door and pumped the gun. There would be a cartridge in the chamber now if the gun was loaded. She pumped it again and a three-inch magnum slug ejected. It was loaded. She picked up the slug from the floor and shoved it into the magazine. Now, go do it. And thought, I can’t. And told herself, Don’t think. But at the bedroom door, her hand on the old-fashioned key sticking out of the lock, she started thinking again, she couldn’t help it.

There was a George Jones song Armand had liked called “The Last Thing I gave Her Was the Bird,” until he got sick and tired of Richie and then he didn’t care for it anymore. That fucking Richie, he was like something stuck to the bottom of your shoe you couldn’t get rid of, like his chewing gum. That wasn’t a bad idea, though, take Donna down there to see Graceland. Why not? She was a stupid woman, but that was okay, he was tired of being alone in hotel rooms, bars, motels—take her on a trip, play some Yahtzee ... One moment he felt relieved, a weight lifted off him, looking at the ironworker’s jacket covering the punk. The next moment he didn’t feel so good.

She could wait for him to come up. Get down behind the side of the bed with the gun aimed at the door. He walks in ... But if he came upstairs he’d be ready, he’d have his gun in his hand he killed a man with, nothing to it, so easy for him, or he’d have a shotgun. Or he could wait, her nerves bad enough, and she wouldn’t know where he was. Or she could listen for the stairs to squeak ...And heard Wayne say to her, For Christ sake, if you’re gonna do it, do it. Wayne took her that far, gave her the loaded gun. Now she had to hear herself say it, in her own words, and after that stop thinking.

You have to kill him.

There wasn’t a sound in the house.

You have to go downstairs and kill him.

Carmen turned the key to unlock the door.

He was sorry now he had started talking to her. It was the same with the old man in the hotel room, he was sorry after they had talked; though he didn’t feel sorry for the girl who ordered breakfast from room service and hardly touched it, wasting the old man’s money. He had never talked to a person he was going to kill before he talked to the old man and now he had talked to this woman Carmen. He was thinking he’d better not talk to her anymore... and heard the stairs creak and heard her steps coming down to the front hall. Looking at his watch Armand said, “You’re ten seconds late.” Talking to her again, saying that without thinking because she was easy to talk to. He took a drink, waiting to see her come in, and held the glass, listening. When no sound came to him he said to himself, Man, you’re getting old, you know it? He sat waiting. There was no way she could sneak up on him, but she was trying something. It got his mind working again. This woman had nerve. Putting the glass down he laid the palms of his hands flat on the table and turned his head enough to see his Browning close to Richie’s .38, where he had laid it when he covered the punk with the jacket. He could reach it if he leaned over and stretched—pick it up with his left hand.

“So you don’t like the idea of a bird,” Armand said. “What do you want to be?”

No answer.

She was there, but she wasn’t talking.

***

Carmen had the stock of the Remington against her bare shoulder, the barrel aimed at his face, his profile, twelve to fifteen feet away, close; though she was back far enough that she could see everything at the table: the covered shape, the two guns, Richie’s bright one and Armand’s dull-metal automatic, his head turned that way, and on the other side of him, to his right, the shotgun leaning against the table. She saw the light from the window shining on the crown of his black hair, above the slug barrel’s front sight, her mind telling her, You have to kill him. But saw Richie killed as she heard that word, shot through the head, some of him coming out red to smear against the wall. And she lowered the sight to a point between Armand’s shoulder blades, a thick solid shape in the black suit. Do it ...Or she could shoot him through the cane back of the chair framed in dark wood. She raised her face from the gunmetal smell to look at him quick and make up her mind to shoot high or low but for God’s sake shoot . . .

Just as he said, “Where are you, Miss?” and half-turned, brought the chair sideways to the table to sit looking at her over his shoulder.

Standing there in those nice little underpants with the shotgun. She knew it was here all the time, tricked him.

Armand said, “You found it, ’ey?” and squinted at that black hole pointing at him. “It looks like the same one you had that other time. Yeah, with the slug barrel.” Wanting her to understand he didn’t give a shit about it. “Let me ask you something. Is it loaded?”

“It’s loaded.”

Her voice sounded calm, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. “You sure now. You not bullshitting me.”

She said it again. “It’s loaded.”

Maybe she was afraid to say anything else, give away how nervous she was inside her nice underwear. He was thinking he had never gone to bed with a woman as slim and beautifully shaped as this one. He could see the points of her breasts in the undershirt, but couldn’t see her dark place through the white panties. The ironworker’s little wife surprised him then.

She came into the room, moving sideways to keep the 12-gauge pointed at him, and went to the end of the table to stand by the two handguns. He thought she was going to do something with them, get them out of the way. No, what she did was put the stock of the 12-gauge under her arm to hold it with one hand and with the other lifted the ironworker’s jacket, uncovering the dead punk. It amazed him. To look at Richie? No, to fold the jacket against her body one-handed and lay it on the other corner of the table. Her husband’s, taking care of it for him. This was the kind of woman to have. Live in the city and take her places, but not the Silver Dollar. He could take Donna Mulry to the Silver Dollar or Memphis, Tennessee. He felt tired and wouldn’t mind lying down a while. Then pushed that from his head thinking, Man, what are you doing? Take the fucking gun away from her and use your own, one shot, get it done.

Armand got up from the chair. He heard wind rattle the windows, glanced over that way, picked up his glass and put it down, nothing in it, moving just a small step closer to her.

“Look at him, Miss,” Armand said, nodding at the punk, wanting her to see the mess his bullet had made of Richie’s head, his hair matted and dyed black now, some of what little brains he had shot out of him.

But she wouldn’t look.

“See? You can’t do it, you’re a nice lady. You don’t shoot people, you won’t even look at dead ones. I’ll tell you something, that slug gun would make a bigger hole than the one there.” He inched one foot along the rag carpeting to take the next step, the big one.

“Miss, you don’t want to put a hole in me.”

Saying it to that slug barrel. She had both eyes open but they didn’t tell him anything, the gun aimed at his chest. He was sure he couldn’t talk her into putting it down. Maybe, if he hadn’t shot Richie in front of her; but knew he would do it again, so forget it. He noticed the barrel waver a little. The gun became heavy holding it like that for so long. She had to be scared. Her nerves could make her pull the trigger when she didn’t want to. Though it looked like she did.

Armand said to her, “You’re not gonna shoot me. You know why?” He raised his left hand slowly and extended it, pointing a finger. “You see that little button? ...You got the safety on.”

He had her.

Saw her eyes change. Saw her finger come out of the trigger guard to feel for the catch, that push button. Armand grabbed the barrel, no problem, got both hands on it and gave it a twist, the gun was his. He took a moment to check the safety. It was off. She got nervous, didn’t remember. Now she wouldn’t need this thing. He threw the 12-gauge across the table to skid and land on the floor, over on the other side, turned back to her and said, “Oh, shit.”

She had his Browning.

That fast, Christ, she had it aimed at him, holding it in both hands with her eyes wide open—not scared-to-death open, just open, staring at him.

He raised his hands to show her, Look, I’m unarmed, and stepped back saying, “Okay, take it easy, Miss,” trying to think of a story to tell her...And she shot him. Fired his own gun at him and it was like the sound of it punched him in the belly, made him grunt and double over. He put his hand on the table to straighten up, said, “Wait now,” and she shot him again, socked him in the chest with it so hard he went back against the chair and sat down. She was still pointing his gun at him. He told her, “Jesus Christ, you shot me.” She didn’t say anything to him. He was holding himself and had to take one hand from his body to lay his arm on the table and lean against the edge to keep from falling. She was holding the gun in two hands, her eyes the same as before, still not telling him anything. He was thinking, Never stick them in a bathroom like that nurse and say she didn’t see you good. Never talk to them before. Never let them get hold of a gun you didn’t know was there. He couldn’t believe it, a woman in her fucking underwear had shot him and he was going to die.

Armand told her that. “You shot me.” Like saying to her, Look what you’ve done. Wanting her to feel sorry for him. He said, “Don’t you know you’ve killed me?” and saw her lower the gun. Now she spoke. What? Said something about her house. He couldn’t hear too good and was slipping in the chair and had to hold on to the table. He said, “What?” and she spoke again, this time loud enough for him to hear.

She said, “You walked in my house!”

Mad. He thought, Yeah ...?

She wanted to hit him because he was dead and wouldn’t listen to her. The son of a bitch. The feeling lasted a few moments. The only thing left to say to him was, “Goddamn you,” for making her do it. She phoned the detective with the Michigan State Police and went outside to wait. They had better not ask her if she had an attitude problem.

Hours later, after they’d gone, she cleaned the kitchen, threw out all the food that was left, the candy, the gum she found in a drawer, the plastic tablecloth, and washed the wall in the dining room. She couldn’t stay in the house. She put on her navy coat, turned the porch light on and went outside to walk in the field and wait for her husband. The wind had died to a cool breeze. Carmen would raise her face to it, her eyes closed.

“I got stopped,” Wayne said, “goddamn it. I figured the shortest way would be take Fifty-seven up to Seventy, cut across to Indianapolis, catch Sixty-nine, take it up to Ninety-four and follow Ninety-four home. Is that the way you came?”

Carmen shook her head, standing with him in the porch light, at the foot of the steps. “I took

Fifty-seven all the way to Ninety-four.”

“How’s your mom?”

“The same.”

“You go see her?”

“Not yet. I spoke to her—”

“I should’ve done that, stayed on Fifty-seven,” Wayne said. “What happened, I missed the turn in Indianapolis, had to keep on Seventy all the way to Ohio and get on Seventy-five north. Well, you know what happened. Shit. I’m almost to Findlay and see the gumballs closing on me fast. ...You call that cop?”

“I called,” Carmen said, nodding, and could keep talking now if she wanted to, but paused.

“So the trooper comes up to the car, has the hat on. ‘Sir, you know you were going seventy-eight in a posted sixty-five zone?’ I tell him the reason I’m in a hurry there’s an emergency at home.”

Carmen listened.

“The guy never changes his expression. ‘Sir, would you follow me, please?’ What’re you gonna say, no? They take your goddamn registration and driver’s license. So I got to see beautiful Findlay, Ohio, and it only cost me fifty bucks.”

Carmen watched her husband look out at the dark mass of woods, his woods, giving him time...maybe giving herself time. What was the hurry? They were home.

“Less than two weeks to deer season,” Wayne said. “I can hardly wait.”

She felt his arm come around her shoulders to hold her close, both of them looking out at the woods now as he said, “You want to try it this year?” Gave her shoulders a squeeze and said, “Hey, it’s something we could do together.”